Thursday
by eksley05
Summary: Christophe doesn't tell anybody where he goes on Thursday nights.


**A/N: Um. Wow. This. Uh. Yeah. Okay, this is one of my, like, eight things I've been working on. And it came about because of Christophe The Mercenary, so this is totally for her. And...I'm possibly on crack a little, but...there we go. -And I promise, I AM still writing Worlds Apart for those of you who read that. Oh, AND, if you haven't read Crushed, you just, well, should, and tell me if you think it sucks. Okay. No more self-promoting.-**

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Christophe doesn't tell anybody where he goes on Thursday nights. He doesn't tell anybody much of anything, really. His whole life is one big secret; he just doesn't see any reason why anyone other than himself should know the details of his life. At least, that's what he tells himself every week, when he slinks his way through the downtown area of South Park, his dark hair and dark clothes blending in with the blackness of the night. What he does with his life is his business, and his business alone. Shame? No, it has nothing to do with shame. He just likes his privacy, that's all. He doesn't like people who ask too many questions, and that, he knows, is what would happen if anybody found out. But it isn't because he's ashamed or, he tells himself harshly, embarrassed.

Past the South Park Mall, nearly on the outskirts of town, is a small bar. The building is old and run-down, the front windows broken and never repaired, and there is no parking lot. It looks deserted, but Christophe knows it's not; at least, not on Thursday nights. It's almost like the bar itself is hoping, praying, for anonymity. Christophe does not know the name of it; nobody does, with the possible exception of the owner, but Christophe has never cared to find out. He moves almost silently up to the side door of the building, and knocks twice, lightly.

The door opens almost immediately, and he slips inside. The lighting is poor, and he has to blink a few times to adjust. The doorman greets him enthusiastically, but he chooses to ignore the greeting. He is not here to make idle conversation. He moves swiftly down the dim hallway, pausing one door before the emergency exit. He tilts his head to one side and traces the word carved into the dark wood with his eyes, and it almost seems as though he is having second thoughts. But the moment passes quickly, and he shakes his head slightly, reaching out and pushing the heavy door open.

There are a few other young males backstage, talking amongst themselves, and they look up at the dull sound of the door falling shut. They greet Christophe with the same enthusiasm as the doorman, and while he does not flat-out ignore them in the same way, he makes no effort to be more civil than he has to. As he passes, one of them reaches out as if to touch him, and he flinches, moving away before any contact is made. His first instinct is to whirl around and use his combat training on the offender, and it takes all of his willpower to keep his hands, deadly weapons all on their own, to himself. There is no place for the Mole here; he knows this, and so he quells the desire to cause bodily harm to every one of those young men, instead simply making his way to his dressing room – he is the only one to get a room all to himself – to change.

"_There_ you are!" A younger man, no more than twenty-five, with platinum blond hair and TV-game-show-host-white teeth, grabs Christophe by the shoulder as he emerges from his dressing room.

"You're late, you know that? I was starting to think you weren't going to show up this week." Christophe's captor says, speaking a mile a minute as he leads Christophe through the backstage area. "You're up next, and let me tell you, it's a tough crowd tonight, so don't feel too bad if you don't get them as excited as last time."

Christophe rolls his eyes, and says, "I zink I can 'andle myself," his tone laced with just a hint of sarcasm.

"Oh, no, no, I don't doubt that you can, pumpkin—" Christophe shudders at the nickname. "—I just don't want you to have high hopes for yourself and end up disappointed." The two of them come to a sudden stop as they come upon the end of the backstage area, and the beginning of the actual stage. The blond man squeezes Christophe's shoulder gently, and then goes out onstage. The lights are bright, and Christophe's head suddenly begins to ache. He can't see out into the audience, but then again, he doesn't particularly want to. The feeling of shame begins to creep over him again, and again he pushes it out of his mind, closing his eyes tightly and clenching his fists. He hears the blond man announce him, and forces himself to smile as he walks onstage.

It's strange, but as soon as he's in the spotlight, all of Christophe's tension disappears. His smile is no longer strained and fake, and the nervousness in the pit of his stomach is gone. Some small part of him, the part of him that would feel shame if, of course, there was something to be ashamed of, is grateful for the fact that this bar is so sketchy. None of the pretentious, God-loving human beings he is forced to associate with day in and day out would be caught dead in a place like this. He has nothing to worry about.

The music begins and he grasps the shiny metal pole in the middle of the stage, mentally running through his routine one more time. He slides one hand up the pole slowly, looking out at the crowd through half-lidded eyes, his lips curving into a seductive smile, perfect for the occasion. It is evident – the cheers and catcalls, from the predominantly male audience, filling the air are proof – that Christophe is who they are here for, not the others. The music, at first tantalizingly slow, begins to speed up, and Christophe focuses all his attention on pleasing his audience, contorting himself around the pole in positions he had learned during stealth training so long ago—who would have ever known those skills would come to be useful in a situation such as this?

As always, his performance lasts fifteen minutes. As his music slowly fades out and the lights dim – groans of disappointment echoing throughout the bar – he gracefully unwraps himself from the pole and gives the audience a slight bow, taking a moment to scan the front of the stage as he does so. The stage floor is littered with five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills – Christophe even sees a few fifty-dollar bills among the rest. He straightens up and turns, slinking his way backstage with a self-satisfied smile on his face as the two stagehands collect his cash for him. There was nothing better than receiving payment for doing something you enjoyed, and, Christophe thinks, grasping the doorknob of his dressing room, fortunately for him, his two main interests both result in personal monetary gain.

He changes quickly, slipping his costume neatly onto a hanger and putting it away in his tiny closet. He has just finished lacing up his boots when there is a knock on the door.

"You were _brilliant_!"

It is the blond man, of course. Internally Christophe rolls his eyes; outwardly, he plasters on a fake smile, eyeing the large brown envelope in the man's hands. The blond looks nearly beside himself with happiness.

"That was our biggest crowd yet, and you knocked 'em _dead_!" he exclaimed. "Seriously, kid, I really think you've got a future in this, I really do."

Christophe raises his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. "I simply give zem what zey desire."

"You see, with an attitude like that, no _wonder _they love you so much! You're a giver, and this industry doesn't have a lot of those these days. Tragic, really; the crowds really respond to people like you." The man passes Christophe the envelope, and he fights the urge to rip it open and count the cash right then and there. "Next week, same time?"

"_Oui_," is Christophe's only answer, brushing past the man and heading for the door. Now that it is all over, and he has his payment in his hands, the feeling of – _not_ shame – something he cannot identify is rising inside him and all he wants is to be far away from this place. The hallway outside is as dead as it had been when he arrived; not even the doorman is at the exit, a fact for which Christophe is grateful. He is able to leave the bar and begin his journey home unquestioned and, so he thinks, unnoticed.

There is someone, standing in shadow, not ten feet away from the bar's exit. This someone, in fact, had been present during the last five minutes of Christophe's latest performance. Christophe does not see him as he passes by, and this person makes no indication of his presence. He simply watches, a smirk on his face, as the French mercenary-turned-pole dancer disappears into the night. Shaking his head, he pulls a lighter and a cigarette out of his pocket. Now that... _That _was interesting. He lights the cigarette, the brief flame from the lighter illuminating pale skin, black hair, and the edge of a blue winter hat, and puts it to his lips, considering his newfound information.

"Hello?" a hesitant voice calls into the shadows. "Craig?"

"Yeah," is all Craig Tucker says in answer, taking a drag on the cigarette. A few seconds pass, and then Clyde Donovan pokes his head around the corner of the building.

"I asked," he says, his tone sullen. "Kenny was wrong. S'only _guys _here on Thursdays."

"No kidding." Craig shrugs. "Sucks to be you, then. I mean, unless you want to stay...?" He says it like a question, anticipating an intense reaction from his best friend, which is exactly what he gets.

"What – _no_, God, shut up, Craig!" Clyde makes a sputtering noise.

"Let's go, then," he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he does so, leading the way back to town. "It's almost midnight, and we have school tomorrow."

"Since when do you _want_ to go to school?" Clyde looks at the black-haired boy like he's insane.

Craig flips off the brunet with his free hand, though he is smiling – albeit it a more devious smile than friendly – and replies, "Since I just found a way to get free cigarettes for the rest of my life." With that, he continues on ahead, not noticing Clyde's look of utter confusion.

All Craig Tucker is focused on right now, is blackmail.


End file.
